


A Cabal of Paris

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: 17th Century CE RPF, DUMAS Alexandre - Works, Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: A Cunning Cabal, Friendship, Gen, Historically Accurate Philosophy, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Letter Gone Astray, Marie de Chevreuse pulls the strings, Parisian Salon, Philosophy, RPF, Whump, historical RPF - Freeform, post-Three Musketeers, pre-Twenty Years After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: A letter written. A philosopher in trouble. A shot fired. A woman to the rescue. A thrilling tale from the era of handkerchief-based communication.





	1. Wherein Porthos gets a taste of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ysande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysande/gifts).



> I apologise for the delay of four years, Ysande. Aramis and Athos had distracted me and I had to write about their alternative adventures first.

_Immortals are mortal, mortals immortal,_  
_one living the others’ death, and one dying the others’ life. - Heraclitus_

‘There is no God,’ it rings through the streets of Paris.

There is no end to Creation. If God is omnipotent and His might truly infinite, He has made other worlds that are just as ours. Has He sent out His Son to all of them, to die for those who live on those distant planets?

He has not sent out His Son to the Chinese and the Mongols; to the Arabs and the Indians. Why would He have sent out His Son to worlds that are not of this Earth?

There is no God.

Has He condemned all who have not been cleansed from their sins through His blood to spend all eternity in Hell?

There is no Hell. 

Why, then, is the centre of Earth a teeming cauldron of hot pitch?

“If you consider the size of the Earth’s core – do you truly believe it can hold every condemned man, woman and child, from the days of Adam until the Day of Judgment?”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting, Monsieur: it will not be the bodies of the condemned that will suffer eternal damnation in Hell. It will be the souls. A soul is not corporeal, and Hell can hold an infinite number of disembodied spirits.”

Laughter rang through the chambre bleue, and Porthos glanced at Aramis, attempting to guess by his countenance what his friend was truly thinking. One could never know with Aramis: he was, on the one hand, adamant that priesthood and the Church were his true destiny; on the other hand, Porthos had begun to suspect that, in his heart of hearts, Aramis was a greater heretic even than those atheists who populated the salons of Paris and that he led religious disputes for the sake of the dispute, not for the sake of religion. 

“Monsieur Aramis,” Madame de Rambouillet raised a languid arm from where she was reclining on her magnificent four-poster bed, half-hidden from view by the baldaquin that kept out the draft. There was that curr to her voice that she appeared to reserve just for Aramis. “You can wield an argument as elegantly as you wield your sword. But tell me, Monsieur, which side are you fighting on? Is your allegiance truly to the Church, as you so often proclaim? Or do your wit and your tongue serve a different master?”

Aramis bowed, as low as the confined space in the ruelle, where he was stood, permitted, without taking his eyes off the marquise’s face. “Both my wit and my tongue are at your disposal, Madame, if you wish them to be,” he said, and laughter rang once again.

Madame de Rambouillet smiled. “Aramis,” she said pensively. “Did you choose the name deliberately, I wonder? You are aware of course that you find ‘Simara’ in Aramis, which is the name of a demon.”

“How very perceptive you are, Arthénice,” Aramis said, putting a delicate stress on the syllables that were an anagram of the lady’s Christian name. He inclined his head again with his hand pressed to his heart and with that look from beneath his brows that in any other man would be insolent, but which Aramis made appear almost coquettish. Yet, knowing him as well as he did, Porthos saw that familiar shadow pass over his friend’s features that sharpened them into an almost demonic shape. Aramis’ dark eyes gleamed like cinder does in the ashes of a dying fireplace.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his fauteuil in a vain attempt to find a better position. The chamber was dense with heat and the heavy scent of perfume, of flowers, of fruit that spilled over the corbeilles arranged on the tables. There were apricots and peaches and grapes, but also oranges which Porthos had tasted once; the sourness had assaulted his tongue and he had almost spat out the first mouthful; but the fruit concealed an unexpected sweetness under its acerbic veneer, and he had found himself craving more. One day, he had promised himself, one day he would have enough money to keep an orangerie on his estate. 

“Pardon me, Monsieur.” A soft voice by his ear, the brush of a flowery perfume, and then a young lady, barely more than a girl, appeared before him in a cloud of green and silver silk. He rose to his feet and bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said and faltered. ‘la Principessa’s beautiful Cossack’, he has heard her called, but he had never learned her name. She had arrived in Paris in the retinue of Marie Louise di Gonzaga; whispers had it that she had come on behalf the Polish king, who wished to marry the Italian princess. Porthos was looking down at her: dark hair and eyes that were almost Oriental in their oblong shape; strong eyebrows and the high cheekbones of the Slav.

She smiled. “Gryzelda Zamoyska.” Her voice was a melodious lilt that made him think of the merry murmur of a spring in the thicket of a forest. There was something of a sylvan sprite about her, not quite of this world. 

“Mademoiselle Zamoyska,” he said, forcing his unyielding tongue around the unfamiliar syllables. 

“Gryzelda, s’il vous plaît,” she said. “It is the custom in my country to address an unmarried young lady by her Christian name, and it’s been long since I have heard anyone other than la Principessa pronounce it.” 

Porthos followed her gaze through the open door to the next chamber, where Marie Louise di Gonzaga performed an air de cour by the clavicytherium. Like all Italians, she had a beautiful, clear singing voice; her soprano rose high into the air like a skylark and trembled beneath the ceiling. He looked back at Gryzelda, whose mouth curled into a lopsided smile that gave her an utterly elven appearance. 

“I have come this way, Monsieur Porthos,” she had no trouble pronouncing his name, and her alien accent, though noticeable, added to the charm of her voice. “To request a favour of you.”

He bowed again and his hand came up on its own accord to give his moustache a twirl. “Anything, Mademoiselle.”

“I have a craving for this particular fruit,” she said, pointing her fan at the giant pine cone enthroned in the centre of an opulent basket. “Would you oblige me by peeling it for me?”

Porthos eyed the object of her desire warily. With its spikey hide and the thick, sharp-edged leaves that crowned its top, it looked like it could put up a fight. When he glanced back at Gryzelda, he saw she had assumed a demure stance, hiding the lower part of her face behind her ostrich-feather fan. But the dark eyes glittered like peridores.

Porthos twirled his moustache, puffed out his chest and strode to the table, rattling his sword and his spurs on every step. He picked up the fruit with both hands, bracing himself for the sharp sting that would come when spines buried into his skin. But he was pleasantly surprised: despite its forbidding appearance, it was leathery rather than thorny. He flashed a broad smile at Gryzelda and lifted his trophy in the air, ignoring the looks that those among the guests who were neither engaged in a battle of wits marshalled by Madame de Rambouillet nor listening to la Principessa’s singing cast in his direction.

For the merest fraction of a heartbeat, doubt rose in his mind; a pineapple was an expensive commodity, and he was abducting one as if he were a boy stealing apples from the curate’s garden. But Porthos had long found that Fortuna truly favoured the bold. He stuffed the fruit under his arm, twirled his moustache, and then offered his other arm to the beautiful Cossack, whose sparkling eyes were in danger of setting the feathers of her fan aflame. 

He led her, or rather she led him, through a door concealed behind a drapery that was the colour of the angry ocean. They emerged in a smaller chamber, whose walls were a shade of turquoise, adorned with purple, sand and golden ornaments. Porthos expected her to stop by an ornate table that beckoned invitingly, but she walked past it and guided him through the next door and into a rosewood-panelled cabinet with a large mirror on the wall. Porthos caught sight of himself – a tall, imposing figure dressed in a doublet of only slightly faded cerulean – and the lady on his arm, whose reflection smiled at him from the depths of the glass like a nymph would from the depths of a pond. 

“Let us sit here,” she said, ducking into an alcove. She sank into the window seat and pulled up her knees to rest her chin on them, just like a little girl. Porthos pulled a tabouret closer and sat down, stretching his legs out half across the room. He put the pineapple delicately on the window seat by her feet. The fruit was mocking him with its alien appearance and its thick armour that was just like the shell of a tortoise. He glanced at Gryzelda to ascertain if she was, perhaps, mocking him too; if she saw plainly how unfamiliar this exotic pine cone was to him. But her elven face was flushed with childlike joy, and she reached out a hand and touched the pineapple with the tip of her finger. Porthos’ spirits soared.

“Permit me, Mademoiselle,” he said, pulling out his poignard from its sheath. He gripped the pineapple with one hand and with the other drove the blade into its flesh.

There was less resistance than he’d expected. When he pulled out, a few drops of syrup bled out from the wound, followed by a potent sweet scent the likes of which Porthos had never smelled before. Gryzelda touched her finger to the cut and licked the juice off just like a kitten; he fancied he could almost hear her purr in contentment. 

“I’ve wished to taste it ever since I came to Paris,” she said in a voice filled with awe. “I never dared ask before.”

“Did you not come in the entourage of Madame di Gonzaga, Mademoiselle?” Porthos said. “Surely that lady wouldn’t have been so ungracious as to refuse your request, had you made it.”

“Perhaps not,” she said. “But gracious as she is, la Principessa can be very forbidding.”

“And I am not?” Porthos said laughing.

“No.” She shook her head, quite earnestly. “You remind me of an uncle of mine, Monsieur, whom I haven’t seen in many months,” she said artlessly, and he realised suddenly how far away from home she was, that young woman who could barely be older than fifteen years, and how lonely she must be in this foreign city, surrounded by people whose language was alien to her ears. “And,” she continued, the impish smile lightening her face once again, “I always find it easier to ask a favour from a gentleman than from a lady. I find them to be most accommodating.”

Porthos threw his head back and laughed. It wasn’t flirtation, certainly not of the kind that he knew at Court. It was the guileless charm of a child, and he knew now why he had thought of a sylvan spirit when she first spoke to him. Here was a young lady entirely unspoiled by the decadence and the artifice of the royal court. It was fortunate that she had been brought to the Hôtel de Rambouillet. Its hostess was a woman of excellent taste who was renowned for her abhorrence of the coarseness and intrigues of the Court, and she had the reputation of surrounding herself with the most sublime, intelligent and liberal minds. ‘And Aramis,’ Porthos thought, grinning to himself.

“Tell me, Mademoiselle,” he said, “are all ladies in your country as charming as you? I may be tempted to undertake a journey thither.”

It was her turn to laugh. “You don’t even know what my country is, Monsieur,” she said. “I’m certain that if we had a map here, you would not be able to point it out to me.”

“True.” Porthos found it easy to admit this gap in his education. “All I know of the Cossacks is that they live in the steppes of Tartary.” He continued to stab into the pineapple as they conversed, and had succeeded in liberating a few chunks of fruit flesh. He laid them on the handkerchief Gryzelda had spread before herself, and she picked up one and put it in her mouth with an expression of beatitude on her face.

“I’m not a Cossack,” she said calmly. Porthos, who had impaled a pineapple piece on his poignard and was about to taste it, halted with his hand in the air and looked at her.

“No?”

“I know that they call me that. But in fact nothing could be further from the truth. I’m Polish. I was born in the Eastern Borderlands of the Crown. The Cossacks are our enemy, and we are likely to be at war with them soon.”

“Are you afraid, Mademoiselle?”

“No.” She shook her head quite resolutely. “My city has the biggest fortress in the Crown. It was built by my grandfather.”

“He must have been a great man.”

“He was. He died before I was born. I would have liked to meet him.”

Porthos nodded and carried the chunk of pineapple to his mouth. It was like an explosion on his tongue, the flavour even spicier than that of oranges, but also sweeter, more potent; as strong as the finest Armagnac. He caught Gryzelda’s eye and they both laughed like children and reached for another piece.

“My ancestors never accomplished any great deeds,” Porthos confessed to his great surprise. “But I hope I will.”

“I’m sure you will, Monsieur” she said. “Why shouldn’t you? You are a fine cavalier and one of the King’s musketeers. Surely you are destined for greatness.”

“It’s not so easy for…” he said and bit his tongue. She was looking at him expectantly, as if entirely ignorant of what he was about to say. “For a man of my… provenance.” Her expression grew more confused. Porthos cast a glance over his shoulder and then spoke in a harsh whisper. “My mother was from the Indies. She was my father’s property, not his wife.”

There. The words were out, and he sat there with a beating heart. It was not something he generally admitted to. It was commonly known, of course, the colour of his skin gave him away. Yet nobody spoke of it, and if they did – Porthos had long found ways and means to be paid the respect that he was due. The secret was to display wealth, non-existent though it might be, and to stride through the city like a man who owned the streets upon which he walked.

She nodded. “I understand. Where I come from, the Cossacks and the Tatars and the Turks take men and women as _jasyr_. Slaves.”

“That must be hard.” He shook his head and stabbed a piece of pineapple with his poignard. “Having such savages for neighbours.”

“Oh, it’s not all bad. The traders who travel to the countries in the East bring back amazing things. Tell me, Monsieur Porthos,” she pointed her fan at him and narrowed her eyes, “have you ever tried _kava_?”

Porthos frowned and shook his head. 

“Good!” She clapped her hands in delight and then beckoned the footman, who was stood by the door, to approach her and gave him orders that Porthos only half understood. When a short time later the footman returned, he was carrying a tray with two cups filled with a substance redolent of rotting wood. Once the tray was placed before them, he saw that the cups were filled with a liquid as black as ink, which was billowing that pungent, bitter steam that prickled on Porthos’ tongue. 

He looked at Gryzelda, suspecting a jest at his expenses. But she picked a cup up quite happily and carried it to her lips. “I have brought it as a gift for la Principessa. The Turks drink it every morning, as hot as possible.” She smiled at him. “Try it. It is a wonderful remedy for all kinds of ailments.”

Porthos was tempted to let her know that he did not suffer from any ailments and that he therefore was not in need of the heathen panacea. Instead, he twirled his moustache manfully and gulped down a mouthful of the bitter brew so fast that he felt its burn all the way down into his stomach. He almost spat it back out and only restrained himself at the sight of her expectant eyes. 

“It is not palatable at first,” she said. “But try another sip, Monsieur. You will get used to it and find the bitterness quite invigorating.”

Invigorating it was indeed, Porthos thought when they were walking back to the chambre bleue. His blood was aflame and his thoughts animated. As they were crossing the turquoise chamber, where the servants had not yet lit the candles, a movement arrested his eye from the shadows. Porthos turned his head and spotted Aramis. The other musketeer stood half-concealed behind a tapestry, engaged in what looked like earnest and intimate dialogue with a person Porthos couldn’t discern. A slim white hand snaked from beneath the folds of the drapery; Aramis took it and kissed it with heartfelt fervour. At the sound of Porthos’ and Gryzelda’s footsteps, he glanced at them, but did not speak, and Porthos knew better than to disrupt his tête-à-tête. He quickened his pace instead and lifted the heavy tapestry hiding the door in the chambre bleue to let Gryzelda pass, and then ducked in behind her.

The room had emptied considerably since they left. Reclining on her bed, Madame de Rambouillet was talking to a man of about forty years of age, with dark hair, stooped shoulders and a large, fleshy nose. He was dressed in the black robe of a scholar, and he spoke like a scholar, in the persistent voice of a man accustomed to lecturing others. Madame di Gonzaga had abandoned her clavicytherium; she was sitting in a fauteuil with her ankles crossed, fanning herself languidly and listening to the debate between Madame de Rambouillet and her interlocutor with a faint smile. There was another lady seated in the ruelle by the bed: a formidable personage of sixty years with aquiline features and ageless eyes, whom Porthos knew to be Marie de Gournay; the celebrated woman of letters, whose quick wit and sharp tongue were admired and feared in equal measure.

“There you are, my child,” la Principessa said when she caught sight of Gryzelda, whom she beckoned closer with a majestic gesture. “My beautiful Cossack has returned to me, Madame,” she added, inclining her head towards Madame de Rambouillet. 

Gryzelda exchanged a sidelong smile with Porthos and went to sit by her patroness. Porthos bowed to the great Italian lady, who acknowledged him with a nod and with an appraising glance. She then lifted her fan so as to hide most of her own and Gryzelda’s faces behind it, and began to converse with the girl in low tones. Left to his own devices, Porthos strolled towards Madame de Rambouillet’s bed, picking up a goblet on the way, which a valet filled with La Tâche from the Abbey Saint-Vivant. 

“It’s a shame that Monsieur de Voiture couldn’t join us today,” Madame de Rambouillet was saying just as Porthos joined the company in the ruelle. “I think you would have found him quite amusing, Monsieur Descartes.”

The man in the scholar’s robe bowed. “It is most unfortunate. Alas, since I am setting back for Flanders the day after tomorrow, I won’t have the pleasure of an introduction. I will, however follow the good advice given to me by Madame de Chevreuse and purchase the latest collection of Monsieur de Voiture’s verses de société tomorrow. Madame de Chevreuse told me that they will certainly be available at the bookseller’s in the rue de la Monnaie, the proprietor is a cousin of the publisher’s.”

“Madame de Chevreuse was here?” Porthos asked, his interest piqued. 

“Have you not seen her, Monsieur Porthos? She left but a few minutes ago,” Madame de Rambouillet said.

“No.” Porthos looked back at the tapestry behind which the door to the next chamber was hidden. “I have not. I appear to always miss her by a hair’s breadth. It is almost enough to make me believe she does not exist in the flesh, but merely in name.”

“Oh, Madame de Chevreuse does exist in the flesh.” All heads turned towards Marie de Gournay, who had spoken these words in a tone of voice that Porthos couldn’t quite read. It reminded him vaguely of Athos, in that it was uttered entirely without inflection and might equally express amusement or might express disapproval. “Most decidedly in the flesh,” Madame de Gournay added, tapping her walking stick on the floor.

“And you disapprove, Madame?” Monsieur Descartes asked, his eyebrows raised in mocking challenge. 

“Why should I?” Madame de Gournay said, picking up the gauntlet with great relish. “Are you one of those young people, Monsieur, who think that your elders have always been old? That we never tasted the pleasures of youth and that we have arrived in this world ossified and withered and full of disapproval for the young? Or do you,” she leaned forward and punctuated her words with a stab of her forefinger at Descartes’ chest. “Do you think that I should disapprove, because Madame de Chevreuse is a woman?”

“Not at all,” Descartes said with a bow and a smile. “Quite the contrary, Madame. Incidentally, I am currently finishing my Discourse on the Method, which is also meant to be read by women.”

“That is most generous of you,” Madame de Gournay said. “We will wait most humbly to read the pearls of wisdom that you are prepared to share with us.” She lifted her walking stick and poked Descartes in the stomach. “What surprises me, Monsieur, is that you wish to read Monsieur de Voiture’s verses. I didn’t expect you to indulge in such frivolities.”

“I didn’t expect you to indulge in frivolities, either, Madame. And yet I hear you’ve been translating Ovid’s Ars amatoria recently.”

“That wasn’t for frivolous purposes, Monsieur. It was to earn money, which, as you know, is a matter of the utmost gravity.”

“I am certain Monsieur Voiture’s work is a matter of gravity also,” Descartes said, but Porthos was no longer paying attentions, because the sound of familiar footsteps reached his ears. He turned his head and caught sight of Aramis, who had emerged through the door behind the tapestry and was approaching the company at a measured pace.

“What does Monsieur de Voiture consider a matter of gravity?” Aramis asked, bowing to Madame de Rambouillet.

“He has published new verses,” the lady said.

“Has he indeed?” Aramis said. “I didn’t know that.” He glanced at Descartes with a smile. “I hope you are going to purchase a copy, Monsieur.”

“I am planning to visit the bookseller in the rue de la Monnaie tomorrow,” Descartes said, a faint smile playing around his lips. “I remember that night well.” He turned to Madame de Rambouillet. “Monsieur Aramis afforded me the pleasure of his company one night during the siege of La Rochelle. He drank my entire stock of Anjou wine and insisted on reciting Monsieur Voiture’s poetry until dawn. It was most amusing.”

“I remember,” said Aramis. “I was feeling most melancholy that night. Monsieur Voiture’s verses were an excellent remedy for low spirits.”

“As was the Anjou wine, I dare say,” said Porthos.

“Ah, as you know, my friend,” Aramis said, “with Anjou wine it can go either way: poison or remedy.”

“Are you attempting to be philosophical, Monsieur Aramis?” Marie de Gournay said.

“Not at all, Madame. I’ve never been more prosaic in my life.” Aramis caught Porthos’ eye and smiled at him: a secret, melancholy smile, one that was more suited to Athos’ features than to Aramis’, and Porthos smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since canon gives us conflicting info on how and when they left, this is set at some unspecified point after The Three Musketeers and long before 20YA. The women introduced in chapter 1 are all historical figures; Aramis would've known them (and it is indeed canon that he frequented Mme de Rambouillet's salon).


	2. Wherein Aramis is cast into inner darkness and there is weeping and gnashing of teeth

_"The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their proper name." -_ _Confucius_

 

Aramis was in one of his queer moods when they met up the next day at the Louvre. Alert and apathetic at once, he appeared to be waiting for something; yet when questioned, he denied that anything was the matter. Porthos was glad when Athos joined them, and together they made their way to the court situated near the stables of the Luxembourg where they were planning to indulge in a game of tennis. Athos, conversely, was convivial and merry. Expert that he was in all bodily exercises, he intended to play against the two of them. Still, Porthos was confident that with his titanic strength he would be able to get some of the balls past Athos’ defences.

“If you don’t mind,” Aramis said when they were leaving the palace grounds, “let us proceed to the Pont Neuf and cross the river there. I would like to visit the book seller in the rue de la Monnaie en route.”

Porthos shrugged and exchanged a glance with Athos, who nodded. They rode down the familiar streets chatting amicably, and Porthos was impressed, not for the first time, by the wit that Athos displayed when fancy struck him. Today, he was in the mood for a scientific discourse, and he held forth animatedly about the theories of iatrochemistry, as proposed by Paracelsus, who had praised the simplicity of Hippocrates, learned from folk medicine, and touted the power of nature and the mind to heal the body. “Science tells us that the humours,” Athos was saying, “should be replaced by the three chemical principles of salt, sulphur and mercury.”

“I knew an alchemist once,” Porthos said, feeling that he should contribute something, as Aramis was maintaining a determined silence. “He was trying to turn lead into gold. It poisoned his brain, and he died of the mad hatter’s disease.”

Aramis, his eyes fixed at something ethereal in the distance, had a handkerchief pressed to his mouth and Porthos was prepared to bet he was contemplating the mysterious lady whose name he had refused to mention last night. Either that, or he was composing a canto.

Once they reached the shop in the rue de Monnaie, Aramis excused himself with perfect politeness and disappeared inside. Athos followed him, and Porthos shrugged and stepped in in his wake. It smelled brown and mouldy, like every book shop Porthos had ever been in, and he looked around, pretending to search for a learned book that he’d always wanted to read, why, the title was at the tip of his tongue, if only he could remember what it was. Athos had picked up a large leather-bound volume and was leafing through it.

Aramis completed his transaction and turned away from the shopkeeper, staring at something in his hand as if it was a bomb about to go off. Porthos wasn’t surprised to see it was a letter, wrapped in a delicate, lace-fringed handkerchief. He exchanged a look with Athos, who raised his eyebrows meaningfully; it would have been far more surprising if Aramis had only come in to buy a book.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” Aramis said. “I won’t be able to keep my appointment with you. I only just remembered: I promised the Abbé de Gondy to complete a treatise by tonight, and the conclusion still requires some work.”

Athos smiled his rare smile, raising a corner of his mouth in wry amusement. “But of course, my dear friend,” he said, with perfect courtesy. “Keeping prior engagements is the duty of a gentleman.”

Aramis looked at him like a man lost in drink, or one who had received a blow to the head.

“Yes. Thank you,” he said courtly. He bowed. “Excuse me.” And with a swish of his cloak, he left the shop and stepped back into the sunshine.

“Madame de Chevreuse was at the Hotel de Rambouillet yesterday,” Porthos said à propos of nothing when he and Athos continued their journey across the Seine.

“Was she indeed,” Athos said in a voice that was as dry as old parchment. “Did you have the honour of an introduction at last?”

“No.” Porthos shook his head. “I never even saw her. I learned later from Madame de Rambouillet that Madame de Chevreuse had been at the gathering. I am beginning to think,” he continued, repeating the sentiment that he had voiced the previous day, “that that esteemed lady does not in fact exist and that she is nothing but an apparition.”

“She is certainly shrouded in mystery,” Athos agreed. “But as to not existing – my dear Porthos, a woman who had no existence would have hardly succeeded in exercising as much influence as Madame de Chevreuse has.”

“Influence over-?” Porthos asked.

Athos merely smiled. “Let us talk about something else, my friend,” he said. “It is such a fine day, and I am not in the mood of discussing intrigues – courtly, romantic or otherwise.”

Porthos laughed. “Does the mysterious Madame de Chevreuse hold no interest for you, my dear comte? She is reputed to be quite amusing”

“None whatsoever.” Athos steered his steed deftly around a spooked carthorse that was in the process of dragging its load and its carter into a ditch and slapped the animal on the croup in passing so that it shied and kicked out. “I doubt that the duchess and I would find anything to do to amuse each other, were we ever to meet face to face.”

Once at the tennis court, Athos and Porthos stripped off their doublets and rolled up their shirtsleeves. Porthos eyed his friend from the side; Athos was shorter than him, but his limbs were perfectly formed and the proportions of his body those of a Greek statue. Next to him, Porthos felt like a lumbering Gargantua, an ungainly Goliath next to Athos’ David. Yet they were fairly well matched opponents: Athos’ skill with the racquet matched that with the sword, and Porthos made up for his lack of finesse by his superior strength, sending the balls rocketing past Athos’ face as if they had been shot from a cannon.

“Do you remember, Porthos,” Athos said, after a particularly impressive launch of Porthos’ that made the ball speed past his face like a charging bird of prey. “Do you remember,” he said, wiping his face with the billowing sleeve of his shirt, “when d’Artagnan first joined us for a match? You all but took off his head then.”

“I remember.” Porthos nodded laughing. “Who would’ve thought that our little Gascon would one day become a worthy opponent? Not as worthy as you, Monsieur le comte,” he added with a small bow, curling his moustache with one hand.

Athos smiled with a corner of his mouth. “My turn, I believe.” He threw the ball in the air and sent Porthos running across the court, wielding his racquet like a weapon.

Athos won, naturally, and they lounged at the court for a while, waiting for their shirts to dry as they watched others play, a tumbler of wine in hand.

“Do you think Aramis has written the conclusion to his treatise yet?” Porthos said as they were putting their doublets back on.

His words arrested Athos, who was buckling his baldric, and he raised his head with a small half-smile. “He certainly had ample time,” he said. “But it’s possible that he’s gone to discuss it with the abbé.”

“You think it’s better not to disturb him,” Porthos said.

Athos hesitated for a heartbeat or two. “No. Let us disturb him. Let’s ask him to have dinner with us. Who knows how often we will have the chance to share a meal yet,” he added in a melancholy tone. Porthos looked at him from the side, but he didn’t ask. He was used to both his friends displaying melancholia on occasion, and experience had taught him that questioning them would remain fruitless. It was much better to distract them with the prospect of a meal or a fight, and Porthos was more than prepared to do that.

Bazin opened the door to Aramis’ lodgings, and his mild countenance changed at the sight of them; the corners of his mouth curled and his eyes shifted as if he didn’t desire to look at them for longer than necessary.

“Tell your master,” Athos said, pushing past him and into the apartments, “Tell him that Messieurs Porthos and Athos are here.” He took off his hat and, as Bazin didn’t stir, strode passed him to the door leading to Aramis’ boudoir. Porthos followed him at a stately pace, and Bazin scurried in their wake.

“Very well, Monsieur,” Bazin said in a sour voice. He opened the door and announced them, and both walked in without waiting for Aramis’ reply.

Aramis, in a black gown, was seated before his bureau, covered with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. At the noise made by Athos and Porthos in entering, Aramis lifted up his head, and beheld his friends. But to Porthos’ great astonishment, the sight of them did not produce much effect upon Aramis, who looked like a man whose mind was detached from the things of this world.

It wasn’t until Athos and Porthos were both seated in two fauteuils – Aramis kept to the stiff-backed wooden chair – and were served wine by a very thin-lipped Bazin, that Athos jerked his chin at the piece of paper that corner of which peeked from under a book on Aramis’ desk.

“Distressing news, dear friend?” he said in his calm voice.

Aramis gasped in a gulp of air, like a man coming up from underwater. His gaze grazed Porthos and then shifted to Athos. “Friends,” he said at last, “the time to say farewell has come. I am composing a letter to the Principal of the Jesuits,” he held up a piece of paper covered in neat writing, “informing him of my wish to take my vows.”

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. “Are you indeed,” Athos said. “What about Monsieur de Treville? Have you written to him yet, informing him that you’re resigning your commission?”

Aramis, shrouded in an air of defiance, lifted a sealed envelope and waved it under Athos’ nose.

“What happened?” Porthos asked. A sudden sadness had taken hold, squeezed his heart. It was not the first time that he heard Aramis speak of leaving the world behind and re-entering the Church, but this time, there was a sense of finality about it.

“Aramis?” Athos said.

Aramis’ gaze darted to the half-hidden letter, and this time Athos reached out and picked it up.

“Read it,” Aramis sighed, waving a hand in a gesture of graceful resignation.

_“My dear René,”_ Athos read. _“It is in the nature of a man who understands duality as well as you do, the duality of mind and matter, to be always torn between two worlds. To find peace, certain ties must be severed and certain others formed. Permit me therefore to give you advice, unsolicited as it may be. What belongs together should be brought together and united at last. Those bonds that had once existed and were later torn must be tied again, stronger than ever. The decision, I know, is a difficult one, but you must trust me: it is for the best. You love for our Church is strong, I know that. Let it guide your heart. Let it make your decision – that ultimate and ultimately moral decision – for you._

_When you leave, think kindly of me._

_Your well-wisher and friend_

_M. Michon”_

Into the silence that followed, Aramis spoke at last. “So you see, dear friends,” he faltered, pinched his ear until its tip reddened, and continued, “There is nothing that tethers me to the world anymore.”

“This letter,” Athos said slowly, whilst Porthos leaned over and put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “Is it from… your cousin?”

“Cousin-german,” Aramis said mechanically.

Athos glanced at Porthos, who raised his eyebrows but remained silent.

“Didn’t you see her yesterday in the Hotel de Rambouillet?” Athos asked. Aramis nodded. “And she didn’t give any indication that she was meaning to break with you?”

Aramis shook his head. “I barely spoke with her. Her visit was very brief, and she spent it almost entirely conversing with Monsieur Descartes. I only had the chance to say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said, and he gave Aramis’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Trifles,” Athos said carelessly and threw the letter at Aramis, who caught it with a strange gleam in his eye. “You should not let a trifle like this affect you, Aramis.”

“You would not always have called it a trifle,” Aramis shot back angrily, his dark eyes blazing like a basilisk’s.

Athos regarded him coolly. “No. I would not. But I do now, and believe me, Aramis,” he leaned in and placed both hands on the arm rests of Aramis’ chair. “I know what I’m talking about.”

Porthos’ breath arrested momentarily. They had not heard Athos speak of _her_ , of _that_ , for years, and it was unsettling to see that cool, calm gaze grow murky with emotion.

Aramis glared back at him unflinchingly, but then his shoulder relaxed under Porthos’ grip, he appeared to soften and shrink in his black gown, and he sank back in his chair. The letter slipped through his fingers and fluttered to the floor. Athos bent down and picked it up, and then something about it caught his eye. He stared at the envelope, frowned, looked up at Aramis and back down again.

“When you received this letter today,” he said, “you appeared surprised. You hadn’t expected any correspondence.”

Aramis shook his head.

“But the lady knew that you were going to be in the rue de la Monnaie today?”

Aramis frowned. “Ah,” he said softly, “no, she did not. By the time I decided to go, she had left. I had been talking to Monsieur Descartes and he told me that he was planning to visit the bookseller’s to buy the new verses…” he trailed off, frowning.

“Aramis,” Athos said, and he turned the envelope over and held it under Aramis’ nose. “The addressee. What does it say?”

“René d’Herblay,” Aramis said, blushing. “She calls me by my name.”

“Being your cousin, she would,” Porthos said airily. He was getting a bit tired of this. He would have been the first to admit that the intrigues in which Aramis so delighted went over his head, but he could not understand why Athos appeared to turn a simple letter into a mystery.

Athos was shaking his head. “Read. Read the _letters_.”

“R.d.,” Aramis said.

“Aramis,” Athos repeated his name again with a hint of exasperation, “ _read_ the letters.”

“R.D.,” Aramis said, in his turn exasperated. “The ‘H’ is missing. What-” he broke off, frowned at the piece of paper and looked up at Athos.

“Could it be,” Athos was saying, slowly, “that you have, unwittingly, intercepted a letter meant for somebody else?”

“What?” Porthos said.

“René Descartes!” Aramis and Athos said as one.


	3. Wherein a philosopher thinks on his feet

_“Good sense is, of all things among men, the most equally distributed; for every one thinks himself so abundantly provided with it, that those even who are the most difficult to satisfy in everything else, do not usually desire a larger measure of this quality than they already possess.” – René Descartes, Discourse on the Method_

 

“I still think,” Athos said when they were walking to the Hôtel de Rambouillet, where Monsieur Descartes had been residing during his stay in Paris as he waited for his _Traité du monde et de la lumière_ to be published, “That we should have destroyed the letter and never mentioned it again. Unless,” he glanced at Aramis from the side, “you do think that he is her lover and that this is all there is to it.”

Aramis shook his head. “No, we should not have destroyed it. And no, I don’t think that he is her lover.”

“You seem very sure-” Athos began, but was cut short by Aramis.

“It is a matter of honour,” Aramis said and glanced up at the cobalt sky. “If a lady’s letter goes astray, it is our duty as gentlemen to make sure that it reaches the right hands.”

“It is a matter of treason,” Porthos said. “If what you suspect is true, and if this is about Spain-” Athos’ hand on his arm stopped him. 

“Porthos!” he said in an undertone. “Not here.” He turned his attention back to Aramis. “Very well. We shall give it to the addressee and let him decide what his conscience tells him to do.”

“Will that not put Monsieur Descartes into a very uncomfortable position?” At Porthos’ words a savage gleam lit up Aramis’ eyes, and even Athos’ cool gaze melted under a rare flash of fire.

~*~

“You have got mixed up in a dangerous affair, Monsieur,” Athos said. They were seated in a pretty little cabinet that was at Monsieur Descartes’ disposal in the Hôtel. He had been surprised, but not unduly alarmed, when Messrs. Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been announced, and he appeared almost glad about the distraction they afforded him from his work.

“I have?” He looked between them in some confusion.

“May I ask you one thing, Monsieur?” Aramis said with that insolent politeness of manner that he had begun to exhibit more and more lately. “Seeing as your planned visit to the bookseller’s store in the rue de la Monnaie was not for the purpose of purchasing a book, tell me: was it for the purpose of betrayal or treason?”

“Aramis!” Athos exclaimed.

“Leave me alone.” Aramis said with blazing eye. “Monsieur Descartes knows that I don’t take kindly to being made look a fool.”

“I thought that this wasn’t about your… cousin,” Porthos said, and could have sworn that a faint smile flitted across Athos’ mouth.

Aramis ignored him, focused as he was on Monsieur Descartes, and he reached into his pocket and presented the letter.

“This is yours, I believe, monsieur,” he said with much bienséance.

With an expression of the greatest bewilderment written all over his countenance, Monsieur Descartes reached for it, but Aramis snatched it away. “Do you deny that you know who this is from?”

Descartes’ eyes grew angry at last, his lips thinned and his nose appeared to lengthen and sharpen until it resembled a heron’s beak. “I do not know that,” he said through clenched teeth. “And I would appreciate it, Monsieur, if you were to stop with your insults and insinuations and told me in plain words what it is that you’re accusing me of.”

Athos picked the envelope from Aramis’ unresisting hand and held it out to Descartes. “Do you recognise the hand, Monsieur?”

“There’s only two letters,” Descartes said. “I can’t possibly tell whose hand that is going by two letters.”

“Very well,” Aramis said. “Do you recognise the initials?”

“They are mine,” Descartes said. “As well as of hundreds of other men in Paris. Is that your evidence, sir, upon which you decided to accuse me of betrayal or treason?”

“You are sure of the hand, Aramis?” Athos asked calmly. Aramis merely answered by an eloquent glance.

“Yesterday, you spent some considerable time conversing with the Duchesse de Chevreuse, I believe,” Athos continued. “May I ask what you were talking about?”

For the first time, Descartes’ face reflected apprehension. He paled and his hunched shoulders unfolded like the wings of a dragon until he suddenly appeared a head taller.

“I hardly think this is any of your business, Monsieur.”

“Was it about Spain?”

Descartes grew paler still. “What does it say?” he asked in a low voice, pointing at the letter. “Does it in any way claim that I have anything to do with Spain-” Fear or fury didn’t permit him to finish the sentence.

“You do live in Flanders,” Athos said.

“So?”

“Spain wants her Netherlands back. The Spanish want to bring together what belongs together and to reunite it. They want to wrestle their Netherlands away from the Protestants and return them to Catholic hands.”

“Spain wanted her Netherlands back for a long time,” Descartes said. “It must have become apparent by now that this is not going to happen.”

“You say that without any regrets, Monsieur? You, a Catholic?” Porthos said.

Descartes smiled a grim smile. “You don’t believe me, Monsieur? I’m sure your friend,” he nodded his head at Aramis, “would be willing to tell you about the religious discourses we led, on those long nights in La Rochelle. He knows that I do not have the ambition to aid the Catholic Church in extending her power.”

“Why the letter, then?” Aramis said. “If not treason, it must be betrayal.”

“Betrayal on whom?”

“On our friendship, sir.”

Silence rang in the room like a cathedral bell. Descartes stared at Aramis in dumbstruck amazement, whilst Aramis glared at him in righteous fury. 

“I do not,” Descartes said at last through gritted teeth, “have the pleasure to understand what you are talking about.”

“Perhaps it would help if you knew who the letter is from,” Athos said. He had been watching both men like a second would watch the duellists.

“Athos…” Aramis said, and there was an edge of steel to his voice.

“The duchesse de Chevreuse,” Athos said.

On hearing that name pronounced, Descartes appeared to be doing some very quick thinking. He looked from Athos to the letter and then fixed his eyes on Aramis’ face. “My acquaintance with Madame de Chevreuse,” he said at last, in measured tones, “is not of such a nature that would permit private correspondence to pass between us. I swear this on my honour as a gentleman.”

“Very well,” Athos said, “in that case, Aramis is right and the message is a code. Why,” he leaned in and looked Descartes straight in the eye. “Why would the duchesse de Chevreuse send you a coded message, Monsieur?”

“I-” _do not know_. Porthos saw these words form and almost heard them spoken, but under the scrutiny of Athos’ clear, penetrating gaze, Descartes faltered and sighed. “Madame de Chevreuse,” he said, weighing his words carefully, “formed alliances during her exile in Spain.”

“Of course she did,” muttered Aramis, to Porthos’ great surprise. This was the first time he heard Aramis even vaguely imply that he disapproved of Madame de Chevreuse’s conduct.

“I do not know with whom,” Descartes continued. “And if I did, I would not be at liberty to disclose it. Nor,” he added, raising his forefinger in the scholar’s practised gesture, “would I be willing to do so.”

“Your discretion does your credit,” Athos said with a little bow at Descartes. “You don’t know what the letter says, then?”

“No.”

Athos held the envelope out to him, and Descartes took it mechanically. “It fell into our hands by accident,” Athos said, “but it is yours by right. If you truly don’t know what it says, and if you don’t wish to endanger yourself, you should burn it.”

Descartes’ hand moved even before Athos finished talking. He held the paper into the flame of the candle and watched it catch fire. It turned black and curled like a dried leaf, and when the flame threatened to burn his fingers, he let it drop to the floor and trod on it, until all that was left were black smears of ash on the wooden boards.

“Return to Flanders, Monsieur,” Athos said, getting to his feet. “And-” he hesitated, and Aramis looked up at him, sharply, expectantly, his lips parted ever so slightly, arrested in mid-motion so that the lines of his body aligned into those of a pedigree pointer. “And be careful to stay away from such cabals in future,” Athos continued, and Aramis relaxed. “Next time when a letter goes astray, it may fall into the wrong hands.”

The three of them were by the door when Descartes spoke. He stood by the cold fireplace, one finger pressed to his lips, and he said, not quite looking at Athos: “My life may be in danger.”

Athos and Aramis looked at each other, and Porthos frowned. “Has somebody threatened you?” he asked, and his hand wandered of its own accord to the grip of his sword.

“Not yet,” Descartes said. “And if they do, I fear it will be too late.” He sighed and locked his gaze with Athos’. “Anything I could say would compromise a party whom we don’t wish to see compromised. All I can do is beg you to believe my words.”

Porthos felt Aramis tense beside him, and he lay a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was Athos who spoke first.

“What do you propose, Monsieur?” he asked in that calm, reassuring voice of his, and Porthos felt Aramis relax.

“I would like to ask you to be my escort on the way back to Flanders,” Descartes said.

~*~

“What if His Majesty won’t grant us an audience?” Porthos said. “Times are uncertain, he may decide we are needed here. Surely Monsieur de Tréville could give us our passports.”

Athos shook his head. “We need the royal seal. Times are, as you say, uncertain: we need to be certain of a smooth passage to Flanders and back, and it is only the King’s or the Cardinal’s seal that guarantees that.”

They were stood in the ante-chamber, waiting to be summoned inside to speak to His Majesty, who was at table. It had been Aramis who’d suggested the time: the King, he had said, spends many hours every day closeted with the Cardinal, discussing the threat of Spain and the alliance with the Dutch Republic. It would be inopportune to meet Richelieu, who would immediately suspect that something was amiss. “And you don’t want to spend the night in Vincennes,” he had added with a faint smile. “I could hardly raise an army by the morrow to spring you from prison in time.” No, it was better to speak to the King after the Cardinal had left him; moreover, after a good supper His Majesty would be more inclined to acquiesce to their request.

Mercifully, the King was in one of his good moods. Still, Porthos was aware that the sovereign’s mercurial temper meant that his humour might flip within the blink of an eye. He glanced at Athos from the side, willing him to speak; but Athos, patient and circumspect as usual, waited for the King to give them his full attention.

“Messieurs musketeers,” Louis said at last, beckoning them closer with a wide sweeping gesture. “Have you come to join us in a game of cards? There is always place here for a beau joueur.” The gaming table was being set up, and several courtiers were eyeing them suspiciously. Porthos twirled his moustache and gave a little bow in their direction, smirking openly.

“Unfortunately, we will have to forgo that particular pleasure, Sire,” Athos said. “We have a request to make-”

Louis grimaced and drank generously from his goblet of wine. “A request? Fi donc!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Come back tomorrow, gentlemen. Or better yet, next week.”

“Your Majesty,” Athos said, his voice deep and urgent, and he bowed to the King. “It is but a matter of one signature and the royal seal. If you would grant us those, you would save,” he dropped his voice even lower and, intrigued, Louis leaned in, “you would save one of your most faithful musketeers from a lifetime in the cloister.”

“Is it Aramis?” the King said. “We are sure it must be Aramis.”

“You are most perspicacious, Sire,” Athos said, his voice infused with admiration.

A broad smile was spreading across the King’s face. “What has he done? Come on, tell us! What _has_ he done?”

“It’s not so much what he has done,” Athos said, “but what was done to him.”

“A woman,” Porthos interjected in doleful tones. “A very fine lady, with raven hair and with pearls for teeth. She broke his heart and he is now inconsolable.”

“Pretty, is she?” Louis said, his face alight with glee. “Has she been seen at Court? Or is she one of those _learnèd_ ladies,” he rolled his eyes, “who only ever frequent the Hôtel de Rambouillet?”

“She is to be married and has left Paris,” Athos said. 

“She is now on her way to Flanders.” Porthos heaved a deep sigh and shook his head mournfully. “Ever since she left, Aramis has taken to his rooms.”

Louis looked from one to the other. “We can see you have learned the virtue of discretion from your friend, who has the reputation of keeping the secrets of many a lady,” he said. “This cannot be healthy. We thought he looked queer this morning. Distracted. Pale.”

“He hasn’t eaten anything all day,” Porthos added to alert the King to the gravity of the situation.

“And so we have come,” Athos said, speaking so low that only Porthos and the King could hear him. “To beg of Your Majesty to play cupid.”

Louis measured him with that level clear gaze that he occasionally wore and that belonged to a man smarter and more astute than the King appeared to be. “Messenger in a love affair? This is not an undertaking we would have ever expected from you, Monsieur Athos. Like your namesake, the Greek mountain, you are said to have never been climbed by a woman.” Several of the courtiers laughed. Athos’ expression didn’t change; only his gaze darkened.

“Only you can help reunite the lovers, Sire,” Porthos said quickly. “We have to follow the lady to Flanders, so that Aramis can,” he glanced at Athos and cleared his throat meaningfully. “So that he can make his goodbyes…”

Louis burst out laughing. “Oh, excellent!” He clapped his hands. “Excellent! A last tryst, before the lady is handed over to the Dutch.” He strode over to a table in the embrasure of a window, dipped a quill into the inkwell and began to scribble a few lines. Athos and Porthos exchanged a stony glance. Louis put his signature to the document, pulled off his signet ring, sealed the letter and handed it to Athos.

“Your passport, gentlemen,” he said. Athos reached for it, but the King snatched it back. “You must promise us,” he said in a low voice, looking down at them from the height of his majesty. “To catch up with the lady and make sure that Monsieur Aramis has ample time to make his goodbyes. Anything else would be a personal insult to your King.”

Athos pressed his hand to his heart, in a gesture that he must have picked up from Aramis. “I promise you, Sire, on my honour as a gentleman,” he said, “that we will do everything in our power to remove the obstacles that have been piled up between our friend and his lady.”

“Well then,” the King said. “What are you waiting for? We are sending out cupid’s arrow.” He thrust the passport into Athos’ hand. “Off with you, gentlemen, off, off!” He waved his hand at them. Athos and Porthos bowed and made for the door, trying not to walk too fast, yet reach it before Louis would have time to change his mind.

Once the footmen closed the door behind them, both let out a deep breath. “Why are we doing this again?” Porthos asked, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“Because by helping Monsieur Descartes, we are helping the lady. And by helping the lady-” Athos trailed off and stared into the distance.

Porthos knew better than to pursue the topic. Aramis proclaimed himself to belong to the Church and yet Porthos suspected him to be the greatest atheist among them. Whereas Athos, who proclaimed himself to have no interest in the fairer sex, must surely be the greatest romantic of all.


	4. Wherein shadows are gathering

_“But isn’t it the ‘self’, Monsieur, that has always been considered the wellspring of sin, according to the teachings of the Church?”_

Porthos yawned, glad of the dusk and the serein which obscured his face as effectively as the brim of his hat did. Ever since they’d left the wayside inn where they had supped, Descartes had been growing increasingly more and more animated. He had now entered into a lively debate with Aramis and with Athos, who were flanking him like demon and angel on one shoulder each. Porthos wasn’t sure which one was which.

He rode a few paces behind them, idly half-listening to their conversation, the snippets of which floated to him over the susurrus of leaves and the whisper of rain. Vespertine birds sang their evensong, and his horse, refreshed after the repast, had all but regained its sprightly gait. 

_“If Lucifer’s fate has showed us anything, it was how rebellion – expressed by his defiant ‘non serviam’ – would be rightly and relentlessly crushed.”_

They had left Paris at the brink of dawn, and they’d ridden relentlessly, until their horses began to stagger and foam. Porthos’ Hephaestus was the first to protest, and it was only through the application of spurs and whip that he could persuade his mount to keep up with those of his comrades. To everyone’s surprise, Descartes proved to be a decent horseman – although Porthos suspected that it was fear of what might be following in his wake that was driving him on. He imagined that the scholar’s posterior would complain for days to come, and he lowered his head to hide his grin. It would not do to mock the unfortunate man, who had found himself entangled in a web that not even Aramis was willing to touch.

_“The fundamental question, as posed by Michel de Montaigne, should be: ‘que sçais-je’? ‘What do I know’ – only if one learns to humbly answer this question through scrupulous introspection, one will be able to discover one’s self. As that great sceptic proposed, each man possesses a room behind the shop that is all our own: the individual’s mind, gentlemen, is a unique storeroom of consciousness, an entire personal world that is as ripe for exploration as the New World.”_

Porthos yawned again and let his thoughts stray back to the inn. It had been surprisingly hospitable, and the wine had been as palatable as they could’ve hoped for. They had debated spending the night there and crossing the Oise the next morning, but Descartes had urged them on. The man truly believed the hounds of Hell were hot on his heels. After a whole day in his company, Porthos had begun to feel moderately curious about the cabal in which they had found themselves, but he doubted that he’d ever learn the full extent of it. His gaze alighted on Aramis’ back, and he shook his head in fond exasperation. Aramis had always been cautious and guarded, and he had never hitherto involved them in any of the intrigues that constituted such a great part of his life. It must be hard for a man as secretive as him to see them dragged into one, and Porthos wondered how that would affect his relationship with his elusive cousin.

Darkness had fallen before they reached the river. Descartes, who had grown more and more relaxed, began to display signs of anxiety again. He fidgeted in his seat, unnerving his mount in turn, until it gave a loud whinny and balked. Athos grabbed the reins and calmed the animal down with the steady hand of the experienced rider.

“Calm yourself, Monsieur,” he said to Descartes. “It’s not far to the river, and once we have crossed it, you’ll have nothing to fear.”

“I imagine this is what Charon tells those he carries across the River Styx,” Aramis muttered, in a low enough voice that both Athos and Descartes could safely pretend they hadn’t heard anything.

“What would happen if there was an ambuscade?” Descartes asked in a demonstrably detached voice.

“We would fight the attackers off,” Porthos said.

“And if there are too many?”

“Our grooms are armed and skilled in combat,” Porthos said, pointing to Mousqueton, Bazin and Grimaud, who had caught up with their masters and were patiently waiting for orders. “You’d be surprised, Monsieur, to see what six determined men can accomplish when they’re attacked.”

“I am sure you gentlemen are able to fend off any attackers who stay to fight,” Descartes said. “But what if they grabbed me and rode away? Your horses are fatigued, you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“So is your horse,” Aramis said.

Athos waved a dismissive hand. “We would shoot you.”

The philosopher gave a start and looked around frantically, as though he’d only now realised that he was in the middle of nowhere, with six men who were strangers to him and into whose hands he’d entrusted his life. His horse whinnied and pranced sideways, and Porthos seized its reins.

Athos was already turning away, steering his steed back onto the road that sloped downwards to the river. His voice floated back to them on the swirls of mist rising from the marshy ground. “One cannot make quick escape with an injured man. They would either leave you there, or, if they took you, we would catch up with them quickly.”

~*~

After a night spent at an inn where the beds miraculously didn’t make Porthos’ skin itch and where abundant stabling was afforded to their horses, he found himself the first one downstairs. Aramis and Athos were still asleep when he left the chamber, stepping over the prone form of Grimaud, whose lot it had been to guard their slumber and whose one eye, black and beady like that of a hoopoe, fixed at Porthos; meanwhile, the more fortunate Bazin and Mousqueton were comfortably lodged on straw in the stable and Descartes lay curled on his side, staring at something that Porthos didn’t see. The philosopher didn’t stir, and Porthos didn’t invite him to join him at the breakfast table. He ordered a good meal and was just about to wash the last morsel down with a mouthful of wine when his friends made their appearance. Athos was silent as the grave, Aramis immaculately groomed as ever, and Descartes pale and haggard.

“Once we’re in Brussels, I will find friends who will offer me protection,” Descartes told them after they’d taken to the road again. 

“That’s still a two-day’s ride,” Porthos said, calculating the distance in his head. “And that only if we keep up the same pace. What do you think, Monsieur?” he asked with a sly grin. “Do you think your… _horse_ is up for it?”

Descartes didn’t rise to the bait. “We can always get new horses,” he said coolly. “Our main objective is to reach Brussels as soon as possible. I would not wish to incommode you gentlemen unduly for longer than strictly necessary.”

The philosopher was, Porthos thought, much less subdued than he had been the day before. It appeared as if by crossing the river they had crossed an invisible border, impenetrable for the pursuers who, as Porthos had begun to suspect, were only in the man’s head.

Just like the day before, his companions strove to disperse the ennui that threatened to engulf one on a long journey by immersing themselves in academic debates. They began by trading remarks which Athos dismissed as mere amphigories with a smirk and a sidelong glance at Porthos; still, Porthos would have been the first to admit that he might not grasp the full meaning behind the witticisms. He carried his canteen to his lips, took a deep draught and permitted his thoughts to stray to the matter of the next meal. 

“You must allow, gentlemen, that there is no relationship between the sensation that each of us perceives and the stimuli that create those sensations.”

Porthos heaved a deep sigh. He had resurfaced from pleasant daydreams, because the grumbling of his stomach alerted him to the fact that the lunch hour was nigh. The philosopher, it would seem, was a sheer inexhaustible source of fanciful ideas which he felt compelled to share with his entourage. For his part, Porthos felt compelled to acquaint his boot with the philosopher’s posterior, but, man of superior self-control and self-denial that he was, he forwent that pleasure.

“What the world is and what we see, hear, feel the world to be is not necessarily the same,” Descartes continued. “Take your sense of touch, gentlemen. You may think that it is the most reliable, least misleading of all. Our skin, our nerves and muscles tell us instantly if someone touches us, do they not?” He reached across and slapped Athos lightly on the arm. Athos gave a violent start and looked for a moment as if he would slap the man back, but Descartes seemed so entirely engrossed in his own lecture, so unconcerned with what was going on around him, that the assault must surely had been unconsciously done. “If you touch a person’s skin with a feather, they will perceive a tickling sensation. But does the idea of tickling resemble anything in the feather itself? It most certainly does not.”

“You are, in short, casting aspersions on the great Aristotle himself, Monsieur.” said Aramis. “Who claimed that such correlation existed.”

“And it doesn’t stop there,” Descartes was determined to continue with his lecture without paying any heed to his interlocutors. “As soldiers, you are accustomed to injuries: a soldier wounded in battle may not notice his injury for hours. It is not until the heat of combat abates and his blood cools that he realises he has been wounded.”

“The rush of blood is thus,” Aramis admitted, “that it sustains one through hours and hours of combat, coursing through one’s veins like mercury, like _ichor pure, such as the blest inhabitants of heav'n._ ”

“Indeed!” Descartes exclaimed. “And then, when a surgeon is called, the soldier’s armour removed and his injury examined, one finds that what he felt was nothing but a buckle or a strap, which was caught under his armour and was pressing on him and making him uncomfortable. If, in causing him to feel this strap, his sense of touch had impressed its image on his thought, there would have been no need of a surgeon to show him what he was feeling.”

Porthos hmphed and, as his noise of displeasure went unnoticed, he employed his voice: “That is all very well, gentlemen,” he said with as much politeness as he could muster. “But if my senses are not deceiving me, it is time to stop for a repast. I feel distinctly hungry.”

“Excellent idea. If you agree, Monsieur,” Athos said, enunciating beautifully and saluting Descartes with a perfectly executed flourish, “we will stop by the next inn, where you can continue with our education.”

~*~

They reached Brussels at dawn on the fourth day. Porthos was in a foul mood. He had been forced to leave his Hephaestus at a wayside tavern and replace him with an inferior, albeit rested, post horse. Descartes, to his credit, had paid the cost for stabling Hephaestus until Porthos’ return without batting an eye. That writing business, Porthos mused, must be more lucrative than he’d thought. He’d always attributed Aramis’ occasional bouts of wealth to the generosity of his cousin, but perhaps… perhaps it was his poetry after all that paid the bills.

The philosopher led them confidently through the labyrinthine streets of Brussels. Nobody spoke; after three days and one night in the saddle, all riders were huddled in their dew-drenched coats and dreaming of a good breakfast. Eventually, Descartes stopped, alighted from his horse and knocked on a door.

The clip-clap of hooves, the rustle of heavy capes, the creak of leather, the clatter of swords, the whisper of a hushed conversation, the scrape of doors on floorboards, and they were ushered into a room with a good fire. A maid brought in five glasses with steaming hypocras. It was as sweet and spicy as Porthos had ever tasted, and an agreeable warmth dissipated in his stomach and rose all the way up to his face. Descartes’ friend, whoever he was, must be a man for some affluence to afford sharing a fine drink like that with strangers who paid him an unexpected visit in the early morning hours.

“Please, gentlemen,” their host was saying, “rid yourselves of your coats and swords, sit by the fire, and breakfast will be served soon. Once you’ve eaten, I will point you to a good tavern nearby where you can get a few hours’ sleep before your return journey.”

“He appears to have it all planned out,” Porthos muttered when the door closed after their host and the philosopher.

Aramis and Athos merely exchanged a glance. Athos shrugged and seated himself in an easy chair by the fireplace, stretching his legs out so that the soles of his boots came to rest against the andirons. Aramis, restless where Athos was phlegmatic, roamed the room like a tiger, the cup of hypocras dangling forgotten in his hand.

It was unbearable to watch the fortifying nectar go to waste. “Aren’t you drinking it?” Porthos said when he couldn't take it any longer.

Aramis looked at him with the unfocused eyes of a man in the grip of fever and then handed over the cup wordlessly. The drink had gone lukewarm, which must be why it left a bitter taste on Porthos’ tongue.

“Whatever it is that worries you-” Athos said, without taking his eyes off the fire.

“I’m not worried,” Aramis interjected. 

“Good.” Athos stretched like a large jungle cat and propped his head on his hand. “Once our horses are rested, we’ll set off back to Paris. Unless,” he turned his head and looked from Aramis to Porthos, “either of you wants to get some sleep.”

Aramis shook his head.

“Not me,” said Porthos. “If our host provides a breakfast that is as good as his wine, I will be ready for the road without delay.”

Neither their host, nor the philosopher rejoined them; not until the dishes that the maid had brought in were empty, the wine drunk and a pleasant drowsiness trickled into Porthos’ head and limbs. He yawned, lounged back in his seat and closed his eyes, determined to put the time before their departure to good use. As he was drifting off, he fancied he heard Aramis and Athos talk in low voices, but it might have been in his dream. 

The door creaked open, and Descartes came in. He was pale, yet resolute, and he bowed in their general direction. “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing himself mainly to Athos. “Permit me to express my gratitude. I would never have made it so quickly to Brussels had I taken the post.”

Athos acknowledged his words with an incline of his head, while Aramis fixed eyes like embers at the philosopher’s face.

“I hope you won’t take it as an insult, gentlemen,” Descartes continued, pulling out a fat velvet purse from his pocket. “If I paid you for your troubles.”

“Not at all.” Athos pulled himself up from his sprawl by the fire and reached out. Descartes placed the purse into his open palm with great care. 

“And if you could oblige me…” Descartes continued, fumbling with the top buttons of his doublet. He unfastened them, pulled out a handkerchief and held it out to Aramis. “And return this to the lady.”

Aramis’ eyes blazed so that Porthos glanced at Descartes to see if the man had burst into flames. The handkerchief was wrapped around an envelope. Aramis advanced towards the philosopher, his right hand at the hilt of his sword, and Athos stood. Athos stopped Aramis with a hand to his chest and thrust the velvet purse at Descartes.

“ _Now_ it is an insult,” he said in a voice that few had heard and lived to tell the tale.

Porthos, to his surprise, found that he stood within a few paces from the philosopher, towering above him like one of the Anakim would tower above a son of Canaan. Descartes found himself surrounded by three men whose minds were clouded by fatigue and whose blood was a-boil with wrath. He did not back away; he merely paled and his lips thinned into a flat line, but he stood his ground. “I’m unarmed, gentlemen,” he said, barely moving his lips. 

“So you are,” Athos said. 

The door slammed open. A pair of frightened eyes skidded over the set faces and tense jaws of the men, and the maid scurried in to pick up the remains of their repast. Athos didn’t register the servant girl, but Aramis unclenched and stepped out of her way. Porthos gulped down the last drops of hypocras. 

Descartes bowed to the musketeers. “Messieurs,” he said with slow deliberation. “I apologise most profusely for having inconvenienced and – though it was inadvertently done – for having insulted you.”

Fire blazed once again in Athos’ dark eyes, but with the open door behind his back offering him a path to escape, the philosopher remained unperturbed. “Be assured of my eternal gratitude and – friendship.” His gaze trailed over to Aramis and he bowed again. “Yes, friendship, my dear abbé,” he said with a faint smile. “A commodity that you might not value greatly at present, but one day you will. And now – I wish you a safe journey back to Paris. Adieu and godspeed, my dear friends!” 

“Well, well,” Porthos scratched his head after Descartes had disappeared in the gloom of the hall. “If I’m not mistaken, the good philosopher has just cast us out into the cold. If you wish, Athos, I will find him and tickle him with my sword a bit.”

Athos exchanged a look with Aramis. “No, thank you, my friend,” he said. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“It would be no bother,” Porthos assured him.

“Let us go, my friends,” Aramis said tonelessly. “Back to Paris.”

Outside, rain painted a grey veil over the city. The three musketeers looked up, shivering, and pulled their hats deeper over their faces and their cloaks around their shoulders. In the shadows, three apparitions gleamed: the moon visage of Mousqueton, the wan countenance of Bazin, and the rather more aquiline and accusatory face of Grimaud, whose eyes expressed all the emotions that his tightly sealed lips could not. The horses steamed and stomped. The rattling of carts, the shouting of merchants, the rattling and creaking of wood melded into the morning symphony of a waking city. Musketeers and servants mounted their steeds. By midday, Brussels had all but faded away.


	5. Wherein blood is spilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, Audience! Enjoy the blood <3

_Blood follow'd, but immortal; ichor pure,_   
_Such as the blest inhabitants of heav'n_   
_May bleed, nectareous; for the Gods eat not_   
_Man's food, nor slake as he with sable wine_   
_Their thirst, thence bloodless and from death exempt. – Iliad V. 364–382_

The Oise squeezed her waters through the narrow bed, rocking the ferry on her waves. With the prospect of Paris looming on the other side of the river, the musketeers’ spirits had revived, and in their convivial mood Aramis and Porthos struck a friendship with a party of ladies travelling to Guise. Laughing and joking heartily with a pair of eyes sparkling at him from within the depth of the carriage, Porthos could have sworn that he saw a handkerchief changing hands between one of the occupants and Aramis. 

Athos, with his customary contempt for the sex commonly referred to as fair, ignored the carriage and the bête noire conveyed within and rode far ahead. Dragging their hooves slowly, the servants’ horses lagged behind. A sudden sharp scent scythed through the air and Porthos raised his head, sniffing the familiar odour that brought to mind fresh battlefields. But then a skein of geese swung low overhead and their insistent honking distracted him from sweet thoughts of slaughter.

The Charon at the bank negotiated his pay with a group of men huddled in cloaks. Athos turned around in the saddle, and even across the distance Porthos could have sworn that his finely-cut lips curled in disdain. He raised a gloved hand and stepped onto the ferry with the strangers, indicating to Aramis and Porthos to follow with the carriage and its aleger load.

The ferry was halfway across the river when Aramis manifested by Porthos’ side on silent Zephyrus-feet, with his eyes fixed at the distance. “Who are they?” he asked in a voice that melded with the song of the river.

That sharp, metallic scent again. It his Porthos’ nostrils in the same moment that the ferryman tumbled overboard after a shove from within the group of strangers. Even before the Oise closed her fluvial arms around him, Athos leapt into action, sword in hand. One of the canailles followed the Charon to his doom within the span of a breath, but there were half a dozen of them left, and not even Athos’ magnificent skills as a swordsman would suffice to keep six adversaries at bay in a confined space for long.

Porthos, brandishing his sword and bellowing anathema across the river, grabbed the shoulder of Grimaud, who had rushed to the riverside as fast as his horse would carry him and was ready to throw himself into the water to come to his master’s aid. “Don’t be a fool!” Porthos shook the faithful domestic so hard his bones rattled. “All this will accomplish is that the river takes you too, and who would keep your master clothed and fed when you’re gone?”

Grimaud, who even in times of the utmost distress remembered the lessons so vigorously imparted on him by Athos’ boots, gestured a spirited reply at Porthos, which the latter however failed to grasp. 

Meanwhile, Aramis had alighted from his horse and, with the terrible coolness that he deployed on important occasions, shouldered a musket and aimed it at the mêlée. The ferry was tumbling and rocking towards the opposite bank, the men staggered across the deck, swords flashing, boots stomping, cloaks swishing, and Athos was on his feet still, a sword in each hand now that he had sent two assailants to the ground and relieved one of his weapon. An icy curse fell from Aramis’ lips as he kept his musket levelled at the skirmish that teemed and writhed, mindful not to waste a precious shot.

Porthos had whistled at his Mousqueton and was putting the servants to work hammering a crude raft out of planks of wood as if from the bones of a slain leviathan. On the ferry, a panicked horse lurched and slipped, screaming as he went overboard. In the next instant, Athos appeared, his sword buried in the stomach of one man and shoving away another with an almighty blow. A gust of wind swooped down on him, tore at his hair and his cloak, and for the span of a heartbeat he was free. He spread his arms and shouted just as the ferry crashed into reeds that snagged at it like drowned men’s fingers. 

“Shoot, damn you!” Athos cried, and Aramis shot.

~*~

Before the raft reached the other bank, Grimaud in his impatience waded the last few paces through muddy waters and dragged himself ashore like a wet cat. Mousqueton and Bazin, not compromised by their love for the wounded man, proceeded with more caution and care for their clothes as they disembarked. Athos had torn open his doublet and was pressing his handkerchief to the wound below his ribs. Aramis and Porthos leapt to his side, their faces grim and their sword-arms tense and ready to slay man or beast, were any to pose a threat to their friend. Even though the strangers had long disappeared in the mist, Grimaud crouched by Athos’ side like a bristling hedgehog, armed with musket and sword and ready to shoot or stab anything corporeal that emerged from the grey swirls.

“Hola, Mousqueton!” cried Porthos, who towered over Athos like the Colossus of Rhodes, shielding him from view. “Grab one of those sluggards,” he indicated the small crowd who had gathered at the ferry landing on this side of the river, “and send him to the next post or village to fetch horses and a ferryman. We must not forget that ladies are awaiting passage,” he added gallantly. 

Athos, pale yet composed, permitted Aramis to examine the wound the latter had inflicted. “It’s not lethal, my friend,” he said with a wan smile. “The distance was too great, the bullet barely penetrated my flesh.”

“There is a lot of blood,” Aramis said, his voice compressed, his nostrils flaring.

“That was precisely the point,” Athos said, shifting so that his shoulder rested against Aramis and relaxing slightly. “They were supposed to think I was severely wounded and not worth the effort-”

“Who were they?” Aramis’ white lips barely moved and Porthos had to strain to catch the words.

“You tell me,” Athos whispered back. He was pressing his hand to his wound again, where dark blood had stained his shirt, his own handkerchief and Aramis’, and was seeping into his doublet. 

Aramis shook his head. “What did they want with you?”

“They believed me to carry a letter. And when I refused to hand one over, they attempted to persuade me to join them on their journey.” Athos shifted again and grimaced in pain. Aramis, his face as bloodless as Athos’, supported him with an arm around his shoulders. He looked up and his gaze encountered the drawn visage of Grimaud.

“What are you waiting for?” he hissed at Athos’ valet. “Fetch wine for your master.”

Grimaud, who had never before struggled with so many words that longed to be expressed, remained silent like the grave and obeyed the command. He left his master’s side reluctantly and vanished in the mist.

“We need fire,” Porthos said. “Bazin! What are you doing standing there like Lot’s wife? Stop saying your prayers and make yourself useful!”

“They couldn’t have followed us,” Aramis whispered. “We would’ve seen them.”

“Would we?” Athos whispered back. His gaze swept across the murky landscape around them. “This cauldron of infernal soup could hide a battalion of riders.”

“But not the sound of their horses,” Aramis said, and Athos smiled.

“There’s no point arguing this,” he said mildly. “Wherever they came from, they did not get what they were after.”

“Our… _friend_ ,” the word was barely more than a hiss, “in Brussels might be in grave danger.”

“Had they thought he had the letter, they wouldn’t have attempted to take it off me.” Athos went very still and then a shudder shook his body. The hand pressed to his side clenched. Aramis bit his lip.

“Can you get up?” he asked. “I hear Mousqueton returning with horses, and here’s Grimaud, bringing wine.”

“An inferior vintage, surely,” Athos said. With Aramis’ and Porthos’ help, he rose to his feet and straightened his back, assuming his haughty posture and even haughtier mien. “Come here, Grimaud,” he beckoned majestically with a blood-stained hand, and the servant scurried closer, proffering a flask to his master like a priest propitiating at the altar of an ancient god.

“There is an inn not far from here,” Porthos said after a brief conference with his faithful footman. “We can fetch a surgeon there-”

Athos lowered the flask, from which he had been fortifying himself heartily, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, of which Aramis appeared to have an unlimited supply. “No,” he said in a low yet decisive voice. “There is no time. We must return to Paris posthaste.”

“We will never catch up with them-” Aramis said, but Athos waved an elegant hand impatiently. He had pulled off his gloves and under the bloodstains his long fingers were white as snow against the dark fabric of his cloak as he wrapped it more tightly around himself. 

“We’re going,” Athos’ voice held the steely note that his compeers had heard in many moments of crisis. “Grimaud! Fetch me my horse.” And as the valet slouched off to obey his master’s command, Athos pressed Aramis’ hand and said in a low voice: “Why the tragic look, my dear friend? Remember the lecture of Monsieur Descartes on the nature of stimuli and the sensations they create. The conclusion we can draw from them is that it is not the wound but the awareness of the wound that causes us pain – and even then there might not even be a wound in the first place, merely a buckle or a strap.”

“Sangdieu!” Aramis exclaimed. “Porthos, my friend, I believe Athos must be suffering from wound fever. He is raving.”

By the time the musketeers and their entourage reached Paris, Athos was swaying in the saddle, held upright only by his own vigour and pride, and by Porthos’ baldric, artfully strapped and buckled by Grimaud around Athos’ waist to prevent blood loss during their wild chase across France.

“Where to?” Porthos asked his friends after they had their passport examined at the gate and were admitted to the city. “We must escort Athos home, and then-” he looked askance at Aramis, “we will run another errand, am I right?”

“Not at all, my friend,” Athos said. He had been very quiet and his face was paler than ever, but his pallor only lent distinction to his noble features. “I will come with you.”

“Athos!” Aramis cried in anguish. “Be reasonable! You must permit us to fetch a surgeon to dress your wound!”

“There will still be time to do so later.”

“Very well, then,” Aramis said, and Porthos looked up in surprise. He had not expected his friend to give in without a fight, or to assume a conciliatory tone. “We’ll go together. But consider, Athos: we are in no fit state to show ourselves anywhere. Let us go to your lodgings and wash off the dust and mud of the road first and make ourselves presentable.”

For a moment, a real smile lit up Athos’ face. “Your hair may be windswept, Aramis,” he said, “but it is still more presentable than that of most men who never set foot outside Paris. I know what you’re attempting, and I refuse. We will go together, and we will go directly. I will not have you lure me to my chambers on a pretence and leave me behind, a bed-bound invalid in Grimaud’s care.”

Behind his back, Grimaud raised his eyes towards heavens and made a gesture that bespoke angelic innocence. 

“Whereto?” Porthos frowned. He had long understood that both his friends knew who was in need of the information they had in their possession, and it seemed to him that they should unburden themselves of it as soon as they could so that it could become the burden of the fair lady whose name neither of them spoke aloud.

Aramis sighed. “Very well,” he repeated, this time in a tone of resignation. “The sooner we’ll go, the sooner we’ll return. To the Hôtel de Rambouillet.”

Porthos raised his eyebrows. “The Hôtel de Rambouillet?”

“Just so,” Aramis said.

They set off at a brisk pace, cutting a swathe in the throng of hoi-polloi that populated the streets of Paris.

Madame de Rambouillet was abed in her private chamber, but when she heard who requested an audience with her, she dismissed her other attendants. The musketeers were led to the ante-chamber, refreshments were brought in, and Athos downed his wine like a man in the throes of fever. 

At the desk in the window enclosure Madame de Gournay was busy with correspondence, moving her pen in quick, confident strokes across a page. She had replied to the musketeers’ greetings but ignored them otherwise, engrossed in her duty as she was. Eventually, having signed and sealed the epistle, she gave them her full attention.

“We are looking for a fair cavalier, Madame,” Aramis replied to her inquiry. “He was supposed to pay a brief visit here before setting off on a journey south.”

“Ah, you mean Madame de Chevreuse,” Marie de Gournay said. “A flighty and unfulfilled mind, I’ve always thought. Which of you gentlemen is her current lover?”

Aramis blushed furiously and bit his lip. Porthos bellowed with laughter and even Athos smiled wanly and put his wine glass on the table, very carefully and with a hand that wasn’t shaking only because of his willpower. “Have you seen her, Madame?”

“My dear monsieur,” she said. “The comings and goings of any of the Précieuses are no concern of mine. I do however wish you luck in your chase. Madame de Chevreuse is elusive, and I hear she occasionally turns up in the most unexpected places.”

A footman threw open the door and admitted the musketeers to Madame de Rambouillet’s sanctum sanctorum. 

“If you don’t mind, my friends,” Porthos said, eyeing the well-stocked plate in front of him with some interest, while one of the deadly sins coiled its tendrils lazily around his heart and stomach, “I shall wait here. You don’t need me to explain the goings-on to the lady.”

Aramis and Athos exchanged a glance. They stepped through the door, and left to his own devices, Porthos continued to gaze lovingly at the lushness displayed on the table for his pleasure. Marie de Gournay, in her turn, regarded him thoughtfully. He cleared his throat and twirled his moustache.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Madame,” he said with much courtesy. “I shall be quiet as a mouse and let you work in peace.”

“Yes, I believe you will, Monsieur,” she said. “You strike me as a man who is easy to have around, as long as the table is well stocked.”

“Oho!” Porthos said and reached for a morsel to go with his wine. “I see you truly are a woman of great perspicacity, Madame!”


	6. Awakening

_“We are born with the inclinations which heaven was pleased to give us, but we enter into the possession of praise or blame only at the moment we begin to act through reason. Up to this point, nothing is truly up to us; after that point, we are responsible for everything we do, whether good or evil. Therefore, it is up to us to see what inclinations we should follow and those we should change. Having known the true path of glory and virtue, we should walk in it despite all the repugnance we might find within ourselves” - Madeleine de Scudéry_

 

The footman at the door stared resolutely into space while Porthos, sprawled as comfortably as the elegant chaise permitted, bit heartily into an apple, listening to the pleasant scratching of Madame de Gournay’s pen. In the corner, a canary tweeted in its cage. Postprandial drowsiness, his familiar friend, spread her comforting mantle around him and he closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall and permitted his chilled bones to thaw.

The door opened and closed, and then a familiar voice: “Monsieur Porthos! You have returned from your travels!”

He opened his eyes and saw Gryzelda Zamoyska beaming down at him.

“Mademoiselle!” Porthos leapt to his feet with great alacrity and kissed her hand with much fervour. “I am delighted to see you again, and so soon after my return. But,” he frowned, “how did you know I was gone?”

“Somebody mentioned that you’d sought audience with the King and then left Paris at the crack of dawn,” she said quite carelessly. 

“Ah,” Porthos tugged at the tip of his moustache. “It was supposed to be a secret. I’d be very grateful if you didn’t mention it to anyone, Mademoiselle.”

“I shall remain silent as the grave,” she said cheerfully.

“From which the dead have already risen,” Marie de Gournay said under her breath, finishing off a letter with a magnificent flourish.

A commotion appeared to be going on behind the door to Madame de Rambouillet’s chamber. A footman walked in, a footman rushed out, the wings flew open once again and Athos appeared, white like an apparition and walking very upright, with Aramis’ hand clenched tightly around his shoulder. 

“I am quite well,” Athos said into space, stopped, and fainted. 

Porthos jumped to catch the falling man, but Athos had dropped to the carpet before Porthos could reach him. Aramis sank down to his knees beside his senseless friend and began to turn him over with great care.

“He’ll live.” At the sight of Aramis’ tragic face, Porthos felt an encouraging word was in order.

“I know,” Aramis said through gritted teeth. And then he whispered so quietly that only Porthos could hear him: “It. Was. My. Doing.”

Porthos scratched his head. “He asked you to-”

Behind him, the ante-chamber was teeming with activity. A footman had been sent to fetch water… a surgeon, a stretcher, more wine!

In her bed, Madame de Rambouillet stirred. The lady raised herself slowly, like a giant goddess on her mountain throne, and left her chamber at a measured pace, trailing the train of her gown behind her.

“Close that door, my child,” she told Gryzelda, indicating the egress leading out of the ante-chamber. 

“It’s too late for discretion, don’t you think, Madame?” Marie de Gournay said from her window seat, watching the scene with mild interest.

“It’s never too late for discretion,” Madame de Rambouillet said. 

Aramis had cut open the baldric wrapped tightly around Athos’ waist and the odour of blood rose into the air. Athos moaned. 

“He feels pain,” Marie de Gournay said. “That’s a good sign.”

Aramis looked like he wished to make a retort and restrained himself only on account of Madame de Gournay’s sex. 

Porthos, who had knelt down and was shielding Athos from the view of any servants who might enter the ante-chamber, lifted his friend’s head from the ground and dripped a few drops of wine over Athos’ pale lips. “If this exquisite vintage doesn’t revive him, I don’t know what will.”

“A surgeon,” Aramis said, pressing a clean handkerchief to the wound in Athos’ side.

“Your friend will be carried to a quiet room and a surgeon will be called,” Madame de Rambouillet said. “It is quite fortunate that he has created a diversion, the _other_ messenger will not attract much attention.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Aramis said, looking up at the lady and forcing a ghost of his usual charming smile onto his face. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, especially since I am aware that you don’t approve of such-”

“Silliness.” Madame de Rambouillet pulled her shawl around her shoulders and strode majestically back into her chamber. “The carpet is to be replaced,” she ordered before the door closed behind her.

Aramis bit his lip so hard that droplets of blood welled up where his skin broke. Kneeling by Athos’ side in the pose of a penitent, his head bowed, he appeared to be praying.

“You seem to be in quite a pickle, Messieurs,” Marie de Gournay said. “Monsieur Athos, of all men, passing out in a lady’s chamber.”

Aramis’ head shot up, his eyes flashing. “I haven’t taken you for a gossip, Madame.”

“And rightly so. I am not.” She tapped her walking cane on the floor. “Servants gossip, Monsieur.”

“Not if they’re trained well,” Aramis said through gritted teeth.

“Where is that confounded surgeon!” Porthos exclaimed. “Morbleu! Will I have to drag him here by his coat-tails?”

“If you permit, Monsieur Porthos,” said a soft voice behind him. Gryzelda, quite forgotten in the excitement, stepped forward. “I believe I can help.”

Porthos had been doubtful, but Aramis, who in his life had ample opportunity to admire the secret accomplishments of women that they often honed unobserved by men, agreed without hesitation. A maid was dispatched to the kitchen, Grimaud was dispatched with a broom to scout hidden corners, and it wasn’t before long that Gryzelda was preparing a poultice.

“Of bread and spider-webs?” Porthos grumbled. “What kind of heathen remedy…?”

“You were sceptical of kava at first, Monsieur,” the young lady said cheerfully. “And then you had to admit that it did you good.”

“I’ve never heard of such a remedy-”

“Where I’m from, it is widely used. Trust me, Monsieur Porthos, I have often helped treat injuries using this method and have rarely seen it fail.”

“Aha! But you _have_ seen it fail! Aramis-” Porthos turned to his friend for succour, but Aramis didn’t appear to hear him. He was sat by the bed that had been put at Athos’ disposal for the time of his convalescence and was mopping Athos’ pale brow. Athos had not regained consciousness when he’d been transported to the guest chamber, and his skin was flushed and clammy with fever.

“I wish we had d’Artagnan’s miraculous balsam of oil and rosemary,” Porthos grumbled, tugging at his moustache. 

“I wish I’d never seen that infernal letter,” Aramis said in a tragic voice. 

“Excuse me, Monsieur,” Gryzelda said. “If you permit me to take your place by the bed, I can now apply the poultice.” She smiled at him. “Don’t fret, Monsieur Aramis. Monsieur Athos’ fever will break tonight, and he will be restored to health within two days.”

“I pray you are right, Mademoiselle.”

“I will pray also, for Monsieur Athos’ health.”

Aramis, who with some considerable effort remembered his manners, bowed beautifully as he vacated his seat for the young lady. “Please be assured of our highest regard, Mademoiselle,” he said. 

“The men in my country rarely return home without a sword wound or a split head,” the mademoiselle told them as she deftly bandaged the wound. 

“You live surrounded by savage Tartars,” Aramis said distractedly.

“Oh, it’s not just that. The debates among our nobles at the sejms can get very rambunctious.” She flashed her white teeth at them. “There! All done. I will return on the morrow to change the dressing.”

Athos’ fever rose as the hours progressed and spiked by the midnight hour. The faithful Grimaud, with the eyes and the general air of a beaten dog, fetched water from the kitchen and ice from the cellars, while Porthos paced the room like a trapped tiger-cat and Aramis slumped on a tabouret, clutching one of Athos’ hands in his. The hours chimed, the candles hissed as they extinguished one by one, and framed by the sweat-drenched hair, Athos’ face was a chiaroscuro woodcut against the pillow. The skin stretched thin over his temples, and darkness pooled in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, giving those noble features an appearance of death. Porthos leaned over his friend and dabbed his parched lips with wine-soaked gauze.

A deathly sigh startled him. Aramis, wild-eyed and negligently curled, spoke: “I did that.”

Porthos stopped his pacing and sat down on the other side of the bed, across from Aramis. “Athos asked you to.”

“I don’t mean just that. It was because of me that Athos got caught up in this cabal, even though he disapproves of such things.”

“Athos approved of you,” Porthos reassured him. 

“Not after this,” Aramis said, and an air of great tragedy clung to him.

“Calm yourself, dear friend, and all will be well,” Porthos said. “I trust the matter is resolved now.” The memory of Aramis’ dainty handkerchief disappearing in the depth of a carriage on a misty riverbank surfaced and faded again. “Here, fortify yourself with this excellent wine that our hostess so generously gifted to us. Why, I believe,” he gazed mournfully at the bottle that he’d just upended over Aramis’ tumbler, “I have been fortifying myself rather more vigorously than you. We must send for more.”

The bottle arrived, the wine was drunk, and fatigue overpowered Aramis, who fell asleep with his head against the wall and his hair falling over his face. Porthos nestled comfortably in his seat, readying himself for a long vigil, and he amused himself contemplating the breakfast that was likely to be served in the morning, as well as the token of gratitude that Aramis could expect from madame la duchesse and that he would not fail to share with his friends.

A faint groan disrupted his reverie. Athos was stirring. Porthos jolted up and seized the sick man’s hand. “My dear friend!” he whispered as low as is booming voice permitted. “You are healed!”

Athos’ dark eyes gazed unfocused at something behind Porthos’ ear. The dry lips moved, and Porthos leaned in to catch the words. 

“ _Wine_.”

“Ah!” Porthos leapt into action. “Yes, you have always been a man of great wisdom, my friend. It is an excellent nectar that we have here, and it will restore you to health in no time.” He lifted Athos’ head with the pillow and held the tumbler to his lips.

“Are you feeling better, my dear comte?” he asked solicitously when Athos fell back, breathing hard.

“Much better.” Athos closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were no longer clouded by the feverish veil.

“You will get well in no time,” Porthos reiterated. “Your physician has assured us it is so.”

“Was it Monsieur de Tréville’s surgeon who attended to me?”

“Ah,” Porthos faltered. “No, my dear friend, you see, it would take too long for Monsieur de Tréville’s surgeon to be fetched, and we availed ourselves of a person who was already here.”

“A good man, I hope.”

“I,” Porthos coughed. “Yes. I believe so.” And desirous to move away from the thorny subject of Athos’ surgeon and her unfortunate sex, he added: “The lamentable affair is now resolved, I trust?”

“It is out of our hands.”

“Good.”

“Aramis’ cousin has left Paris.”

“I expect she will write to assure him of her good health.” Porthos took another sip of the excellent wine and, quite forgetting the necessity of secrecy, added: “Madame la Gournay informed us that the duchesse de Chevreuse was in high spirits and looking forward to her trip.”

A spasm of pain contorted Athos’ face as he moved, shifting to get more comfortable. The slipping sheet revealed his fine cambric shirt to be torn and bloodied, and Athos wrinkled his nose.

“The duchess will sew you a new one,” Porthos assured him. “Aramis’ cousin has ties to Tours, where the best fabrics come from, and judging by Aramis’ shirts, her stitching is second to none.” 

“The cockatrice!” Athos exploded, in a rare bout of anger born out of suffering. “She better keep it for herself. Roaming the countryside in men’s clothing, pah! Nothing good will ever come of this.”

Porthos lifted Athos into a sitting position with greater care and delicacy than one would expect of a man so large and bearlike, tossed aside the sweat-soaked pillow, replaced it with a fresh one, and pulled a clean linen sheet over Athos. “There, my dear comte! Now, drink up your wine and rest. There is no point dwelling on the whole cabal, it is no longer our concern. Aramis is very contrite.”

They both glanced at the sleeping man, who in his slumber looked as young and angelic as a cherub. “I will wake him, Athos. He will be glad to see you awake.”

“No, my dear friend, let him sleep,” Athos said, gazing tenderly at their youngest companion. “He’s had a trying time. I will speak with him tomorrow.” He pressed Porthos’ hand as he lay back, closing his eyes. “And you should get some rest too.”

“I can do that now that I see you are getting well!” Porthos agreed. “Good night, my dead comte.”

The luxurious comfort of his easy chair, the wine in which he’d so enthusiastically partaken, the silence of this darkest hour of the night soon lulled Porthos to sleep. But then, something began to stir at the edge of hearing, and he floated up slowly from the depth of a dream that had conjured up some rather lovely phantasmagorias. Suspended between dreaming and waking, he remained quite still, and then, there was Aramis’s voice, such as Porthos had never heard before, muttering something that he couldn’t quite make out. Athos replied in a voice that was still faint with fever and yet infused with the warmth of a smile: “Don’t be upset, my dear friend. Everything is all right.”

“If it wasn’t for me,” Aramis continued, in the same queer tones, “for my folly, for my… love, none of this would have happened.”

“It was my duty as your friend to go with you.”

“You truly are the best of friends, Athos.”

His eyes closed, Porthos found himself nodding along. 

“I shot you,” Aramis whispered. 

“Trifles! We risk our lives daily.” 

“Well then… perhaps we shouldn’t,” Aramis said defiantly. “Not for something as stupid as this, Athos.”

There was silence, and Porthos was readying himself for yawning and waking, but then Athos spoke again, and he sounded more sombre than hitherto. “Yes… I believe you are right, Aramis. Perhaps it’s time for this period of juvenile follies to come to an end.”

Silence again. It was followed by Aramis’ voice, steel wrapped in silk. “Is that what this is about?”

“Perhaps,” Athos repeated. “It’s time. I haven’t yet occasion to tell you, my dear Aramis, but the truth is: I have inherited a little property near Blois and will soon take possession of it.”

“You, Athos? A seigneur of the land?”

“And why not? Do you not think that I can perform this role well?”

“I believe you can perform any role well, if you put your mind to it, my dear comte. But what will you tell Porthos? What will become of him?”

“My dear friend, Porthos will be fine. He doesn’t have that… thing that burns you up and that drives me to drink. As long as there’s a fight or a good meal, he’ll be all right. He has his merry widow to wed, she’ll make him happy.”

“And rich.”

“And rich.”

At long last, lightness returned to Aramis’ voice as he added: “You’re forgetting that there is one more thing that Porthos craves: his baronetcy.”

“He will get one.” Athos smiled, Porthos could hear it. “I know he will.”

At the sound of this confident pronouncement, Porthos wanted to smile likewise, but found to his dismay that his face wouldn’t quite cooperate. 

“So this is adieu,” Aramis said. 

“I think so,” Athos said, and this time there were tears in his voice. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you cry, my dear comte,” Aramis said.

“I don’t think I will ever see you cry,” said Athos. “Will I?”

Silence fell once again and stretched longer than ever, but Porthos decided that this was not the time to wake after all. He had been enjoying a rather pleasant dream and if he kept his eyes closed, the dream may yet continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Muahahaha!!~~ Um, what? So according to one canonical account, Athos left first, to take possession of his property near Blois. But everyone always blames poor sweet Aramis for being the first one to leave and disappear without a word, like a fiend in the night. He'd never!
> 
> And on a slightly more cheerful note: Marie de Gournay really was full of snark & sass, like so: _“When I read these writings by men, I suspect that they see more clearly the anatomy of their beards than they see the anatomy of their reasons._


End file.
